Exactly As Said
by dastaes
Summary: Coversations between Faramir and the varied people in his life.
1. Mithrandir

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

Just a piece of a conversation I've had skittering around in my head that wanted to come out.

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><p><strong>Mithrandir<strong>

"'Narsil reforged, leader of an army of the dead, and healing hands. By all these will the true and rightful King of Gondor be known.' Is that not what you taught me all those years ago?"

"I am glad that you learned them and that I was able to teach them to you."

"For my sake or for _his_?"

"For the greater good of all, Faramir."

"There was nothing I looked forward to more as a boy than your visits to Minas Tirith, to learn from you, to speak with you, and how my father scorned me for it, even unto his bitter end."

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><p>Obviously this is a conversation between Faramir and Gandalf. Now, don't get me wrong - I like Gandalf. I do. But, I've always felt he was a little more manipulative than anyone was willing to admit. Except maybe Denethor.<p> 


	2. Hurin

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.

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><p><strong>Hurin<strong>

Hurin handed it to him on bended knee, holding it out upon upraised palms as if presenting the most honored relic of the realm instead of the slightly rusted piece of metal that it was. There were tears in the elder man's eyes which he did not try to hide for there was no shame to color his grief.

For years, Hurin had faithfully served the Lord Steward Denethor, served him, revered him, and then, eventually, befriended him. There had been a familiar ease in the two men's relationship, much like teacher and pupil…or father and son. Faramir's only jealousy in life.

"It was given to me by one of the guards." The iron key was heavier than Faramir had thought it would be as Hurin dropped it into his hands. "It is yours now."

Or, perhaps, it was the burden of his own grief, unacknowledged and unexpressed, that was weighing him down.

...

The door had been locked. He wondered why. Were not locks meant to guard treasures, objects of value? There was only devastation within.

Shafts of harsh sunlight filtered into the chamber piercing the reverent darkness. It almost seemed a sacrilege. A breeze stirred white ash into swirling patterns and lifted the fine residue upon gentle currents to brush, soft as fingertips, against the sharp lines of Faramir's cheeks. He shut his eyes against the touch.

The great dome had cracked and mourning doves now nested in the debris. There was nothing left. Nothing of his grandfather's sarcophagus. Nothing of his mother's. Nothing of the Stewards who had come before. Who was he if he had no ancestors to honor, no family? All he had left were ashes and dreams, and all these slipped through grasping, desperate fingers.

_Father, you devouring bastard._

There were hesitant steps behind him, feet shuffling through brittle, soot-stained stones and shattered fragments of marble.

"He would not have wished for it to end this way between you." Hurin looked about him with true sorrow writ so clearly across his pale and aging face. He did not need the black robes of mourning. "Only ruins."

"What would you have me say, Hurin? That he was my father and I his son? That I loved him?" Faramir shrugged, wincing still at the pull of bandages upon pink, fragile flesh. "All this I know. It is everything else that I am unsure of."

...

There was little left by the time he was done having the chambers cleaned, and he felt a moment's guilt at the bewildered, slightly forlorn expression upon Hurin's face as he viewed them. The former Steward's chambers had been a study in darkness, shadows upon shadows, heavy ebony furniture and tightly shut curtains. Faramir had ordered the rooms stripped bare, down to the very mortar of the stone floor and had had no inclination, and even less time, to remedy the situation.

The books went to the library, a gift from the late Steward Denethor. The parchments with his father's distinctively bold writing, his memoirs, went to the archives. The clothes in the wardrobe were sent to the city's stores. Only two things he kept – a sketch of his mother (how had he forgotten that his father had once had a fine hand for drawing) and a heavy silver ring which Faramir remembered his father wearing all of his life but had never asked from where it had come. To Hurin he gave the ring.

"You knew him better than I, Hurin. There is no harm in admitting such things now. Not now."

_Not now when it was all over and could never be changed._

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><p>I don't think that Faramir would hate Denethor. But, come on! The guy tries to burn you alive after a lifetime of disregard. I think a little anger is warranted. Afterall, anger is a part of the grieving process. And I like to write Faramir as a man just as fallible as any other. The beauty of Faramir, I think, then is his ability to overcome such feelings and love his father all the same.<p> 


	3. Imrahil

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of the characters.

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><p><strong>Imrahil<strong>

How could they know? How could they possibly understand when she herself could barely understand? How could she explain when there were no words in the language of her war-like people to do so?

And so, since she could not, she remained silent and they thought her love for him was less.

...

She was nothing like his sister, like Finduilas, and he wondered just what it was that had attracted his nephew so. Just what had they to speak about?

She was fair, he could not deny that, but there were fairer maidens of Gondor from which Faramir might have his first pick of choice. True, she was a lady of high birth, of royal blood, sister to a king, but her blood was not of Numenor. She was of a lesser people, valiant though they were, and he could not suppress his distress for his nephew's hasty choice in bride.

The Lady Eowyn of Rohan.

The Rohirrim had sung songs of her at the victory celebrations on the Cormallen. Lady of the Shield-arm, they called her. Killer of the Witch-King. They did not sing of the story he had heard from Eomer King, the lady's brother - of her unrequited love for the northern ranger who had become a king, of her flight from Rohan disguised as a man against the command of her uncle and liege, of her wish for glory in death.

It was not that he did not like her. He just did not like her for his nephew.

"And yet, no words of love pass her lips for you."

Imrahil placed his hands squarely upon the sturdy, oaken desk. Finally, his nephew raised his head from the scattered papers and eyed him with amusement, a small smile softening the lines of his stern face, a smile which called to mind a mother and sister taken too soon.

"I am no boy that you need meddle in my love affairs, Uncle."

Someone needed to, and those that might have had the right were no more. Imrahil gazed at this man who had been only a boy when last they had seen each other. So many years ago. Imrahil knew so little of him. It had been years since Denethor had allowed both Boromir and Faramir to visit their kin by the sea, and the once talkative lad that Imrahil remembered was now replaced by a full-grown man that had learned to keep his own secrets well, to watch and be silent.

"How could I not, Faramir? Flesh of my flesh, my blessed sister's son, her only living child, child of her heart. What kind of uncle would I be, what kind of brother, if I did not think of you?"

Faramir held up a forestalling hand, "Uncle…"

"She was known to be connected to the King and now you say that only months later her heart has turned from him and now you two are to be married. What am I to think but that she goes from one prize to another?" Imrahil asked.

"I am hardly a prize."

Hearing the laughter that colored his nephew's words, Imrahil pinned Faramir with a severe look. "There is no one of sufficient rank in Rohan for her to marry, I have heard her very own brother say so, and you are second only to the very King of Gondor."

"You do not know her."

Faramir was all seriousness now, his posture tall and proud, unbending, and he was like unto his father then, but Imrahil pressed forward. He would never be able to forgive himself if he did nothing and all this ended in more grief for Faramir.

"Do you?" Imrahil asked.

Faramir looked away from his uncle, unable to speak of such things, of his heart, with such scrutiny upon him. "When the warden brought her to me and she begged to be released, I knew her at once. She was thin, too thin, and pale. A being from which all light had been leeched. She seemed hollow-boned and fragile, like chrysalis, and grief suffused her so that it screamed her unhappiness without her ever even opening her mouth. She had wished for the love of the King, and, if not that, then the praise of song, glory in death. She wanted to be taken away from all of her cares. She wished to rise, to rise so high that nothing could touch her." Faramir shook his head. "She did not know."

Imrahil sent his nephew a questioning gaze, and Faramir turned finally to look upon his uncle with such an open face that Imrahil was momentarily stunned at the transformation such bald feelings could wreak upon such a normally placid face. Breathtaking.

"She did not know that she had no need for kings or songs. She has wings of her own by which to rise. Wings enough to fly."


End file.
